


Sprite

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Cock Warming, M/M, Oral Sex, Submission, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4553100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imrahil finds Denethor with a hobbit holding the sorrow at bay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sprite

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Pippin has sworn to obey every command of the Steward. Some are more fun than others.” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=12555536#t12555536). (I know Imrahil’s white in the movies, but I’m ignoring that in favour of my headcanon.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

At first he thinks it strange, to visit the Steward in a closeted study, instead of out before the steps of the throne. Almost every time Imrahil’s ever come, Denethor’s been in the same black chair, his gnarled fingers clasped tight around the edges. Now he lounges back by the fire, and when Imrahil’s inside, he knows why.

The servant shuts the door behind him, and Imrahil paces a step closer, stopping there. In younger days, they might’ve embraced, but Denethor’s become old and withered and doesn’t rise from his seat. A figure kneels at his feet, tucked between his legs, and if that body wore any clothes, Imrahil might mistake it for a child, but the torso is that of a man, the feet large and hairy but the rest soft. “A halfling,” Denethor explains idly, perhaps at the question in Imrahil’s eyes. With a snort, Denethor waves his hand, again perceiving Imrahil’s mind. “You should know me better than that. He is no child, and he swore his services freely.” Imrahil lifts a brow, wondering if this precise service was mentioned beforehand. 

At least the halfling—the first Imrahil’s ever seen but not something he’s never heard of—doesn’t show any signs of struggle or disagreement. He sits obediently, not moving, with open eyes when Imrahil tilts to look, however hazed and heavy lidded. He isn’t sucking eagerly, like the joys Imrahil’s used to, but rather keeping his master’s cock warm, like some still piece of furniture. Denethor pays little heed to the face buried in his crotch, instead waving his hand towards the chair across from him. 

Imrahil takes his seat with some hesitation. He can’t help but wonder aloud, “We have much to discuss of the coming war, my lord. Is this truly appropriate?” He wouldn’t speak out of turn if matters weren’t so urgent, and he half expects Denethor’s temper to flare, but it doesn’t. 

Denethor merely sighs, “I can see that you have not yet learned that pleasures are oft needed to keep the darkness from devouring one’s mind.” A fair point, perhaps, but not one expected of the Steward of Gondor. He’s changed, of late. They aren’t so far apart in age, yet while Imrahil sits tall, dark and strong in his armour, Denethor is pale and gaunt, slouched back but still with sharp eyes. He won’t ride in the front, Imrahil thinks, but pull strings from the shadows, cold and calculating. Imrahil will charge to battle and sing fire in his native tongue, bring all those who fight behind him the courage to drive on. 

On the table beside Denethor’s chair rests an unfurled map, beaten and yellowing around the edges, figurines of battlements clumped atop it. No sooner has Imrahil turned his gaze there when Denethor shifts, one hand drawing down to fist in the halfling’s thick curls. He pushes the creature off, tosses the poor thing forward, and the small man stumbles back, jaw hanging open like it’s been loose too long to close. Denethor tucks himself back into his robes, drawling, “Show the Prince of Amroth the pleasure of which I speak, Peregrin.” It’s spoken like an order barked to a dog, and Imrahil begins to protest, but he stops when he catches the halfling’s eyes.

There’s a mischievous glint in them—the life is there, just wary. Peregrin—if that is the creature’s name—fixes Imrahil with a sweeping look, head to toe, and dons a hungry grin that he tries to restrain. In that quick instant, Imrahil knows that he isn’t being offered a cowed servant, but a man eager to delight in a handsome warrior’s body, so long as they’re kinder than the cruel man who orders him about. Peregrin moves to all fours, crawling on hands and knees to Imrahil’s feet. His body, though compact, is pretty in its nakedness, sun-kissed but still lighter than Imrahil’s golden-brown hues, fatter in places and certainly not battle-hardened, exotic, in a way. Imrahil reaches down to help the pretty thing up into his lap, where the halfling squirms delightedly and presses his small, pink cock against the armour of Imrahil’s stomach. 

As Denethor turns to his map, Peregrin happily licks Imrahil’s neck, and they speak of how to fight the malice that simmers at their gate.


End file.
